Jeeves and the Red Eyes
by Minor God
Summary: While cleaning out Bertie's wardrobe, Jeeves comes across a rare Steiff black teddy bear. What is that? Read on to find out. K.


_A/N: I'm coming back to fandom after a long time in the wilderness, and this is the first fic of my new era. I sincerely hope you enjoy, and that the little titbit of Bertie's background is agreeable to you._

While the young master was dressing, Jeeves engaged himself in arranging for various garments to be deployed. He had been in Mr Wooster's service some twelve months now, and considered his tenure secure enough that it was feasible to begin editing the young gentleman's wardrobe not only of items he procured while Jeeves was in service, but also from the back catalogue of his adult life.

To do so in front of Mr Wooster, or at least while he stood in the room admiring his white cravat and well-shaved throat in the mirror, required considerable confidence, but at the same time, Jeeves considered it less than dignified to sneak through the back vestiges of the wardrobe when Mr Wooster was out and arrange for the donation or cremation of whatever displeased him. It would be untrue to state that Jeeves did not enjoy the occasional differences of sartorial opinion that peppered their acquaintance – for Jeeves, intellectual challenges and their eventual victories were a happy part of an active life.

It was as Jeeves professionally, with dignity and nonchalance, reached into the back of the wardrobe, that his fingers closed on something that felt altogether unsatisfactory. The texture was sheep-like, but not woollen, more (though Jeeves would never elect to use the word) _fluffy_. What was it? A sporran perhaps? Something feathered? Preparing for the worst, he dragged it out and –

Jeeves found that he was holding a teddy bear. It was not of the most pleasant aspect, being black – not the black of natural hair but of the grimmest dye – and with red eyes. It looked sad, yet somehow demonic. Jeeves considered it a moment. He was of the firm opinion that anything that wasn't clothes belonged outside a wardrobe, and the idea that valets before him had allowed this to lie there disquieted him. "Sir?" He meant to enquire whether Mr Wooster remembered this childhood relic, whether he would like it properly packed up safe from moths, or thrown away outright when the young man turned towards him and on seeing the bear, cried out.

"No!" cried Mr Wooster. "Put it back, please put it back." There was fright in his eyes which Jeeves had never seen; he was suddenly hunched over, as though he'd been punched in the stomach.

Quickly, without expression, Jeeves returned the bear to the back of the wardrobe and shut the door. He may have apologised, but in his extensive experience, young men who have been caught unawares with their emotions did not like to have it discussed. He ceased the curtailing of shirts and suits for the day, and went to busy himself in the kitchen.

Mr Wooster had been dressing for dinner with his cousin Angela, who was in town for the debutante ball of a friend, but rather than leave the flat, as he had been planning to do about half an hour after the incident, he rang the bell from the sitting room and said hoarsely "Tea, Jeeves." Not long afterwards, the doorbell rang and Jeeves admitted Miss Angela Travers.

"A most pleasant surprise, Miss," he greeted her. "Might I offer you tea?"

"Tea, yes please Jeeves," she replied, looking off into the sitting room distractedly. "Bertie darling," she called, leaving her shawl with Jeeves, "how are you?"

Mr Wooster appeared in the hallway, receiving his cousin into his arms. "Well enough, dearest young potato," he said, devoid of his usual gusto. Jeeves detected that something had passed between them on this – most likely Mr Wooster had called Miss Angela to say that he was out of sorts and would like to meet her at home instead. This was so unlike his employer as to cause Jeeves considerable pause. He clunked mechanically through the process of the tea making.

When he returned to lay the china in the sitting room, it was deserted, but the door to the master bedroom stood ajar. Listening at open doors, Jeeves reasoned, hardly constituted the servants' cardinal sin of eavesdropping, for if a door were open, who was to assume that what was being said therein was especially considered private?

"It's an ugly thing," Angela was saying, in awed hushed tones.

"Yes," said Bertie sadly. "It's meant to have red eyes to suggest it's been weeping."

"Oh, Bertie how sad."

"And the fur is black for mourning."

"I see. Did all you children get one?" she asked, timidly, and Jeeves discerned from a rustle of fabric across fabric, that she put her arms round him.

"I don't know. Aunt Agatha gave me this, and one to my sister. They only ever made six hundred, though one thousand five hundred and twenty-three died." This struck Jeeves as an unsettling statement from the young master, who was never maudlin and never so sure of exact numbers. What was he referring to? Was this mass-death the thing which had so affected him this evening?

Angela spoke. "Do you remember it at all, Bertie?"

When Bertie replied, his voice was a-quiver, husky. "Yes. I remember almost everything, I was twelve. But I didn't understand for years and years what had happened. Mother just told us to get into the lifeboat and cling on to each other, no matter what. That's what we did. It was freezing out there, and so dark. Like a version of hell, Angie."

"Don't talk about it, if it's going to upset you."

"Mother put us in the earliest lifeboat she could, and she waited behind. Connie and I never looked back, we were so afraid. They think Mother's boat was dragged under when the ship sank, and Father… a lot of the men never even left the Titanic."

"Don't cry," Angela whispered. "We are happy to still have you."

"I wish-"

"I know. But you don't get wishes."

"I sometimes feel that I've wasted what they gave me. Mother, giving up her place…"

"You are one of England's loveliest young men. Your parents would be very proud."

Sensing that the two young people had begun an embrace which would soon end and lead them back out to see what had become of the tea, Jeeves retired to his quarters. He lay for a moment, heavily on his bed, and breathed steadily.

That poor boy, he thought. That poor, poor boy.


End file.
